Murder on the QE2 (26 page)

“Me? How could I have done that?”

“By giving your life.”

The audience gasped.

Lackman continued: “You see, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Climber, despite his advanced age, continued to enjoy intimacy with beautiful women. Unfortunately, this penchant for female companionship caused him ...” He spun around and directly faced the actor playing Climber. ”... caused you to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

All attention focused on Climber.

A literal-minded member of the audience yelled, “How come he’s sitting there if he died?”

“Aha,” said Lackman, finger pointed in the air. “An excellent question. In the interest of theater, it was necessary to resurrect Mr. Climber for purposes of this performance. The truth is, Mr. Climber did, indeed, give his life—and in doing so, he has given us the answer to that perplexing question of who killed Veronica Rivers, at Ms. Suzie Starlet’s behest.”

“Who?” a dozen voices asked.

“Elementary, my dear audience. The answer is captured on videotape. You see, the excellent crew of this magnificent vessel saw fit to install a video surveillance camera at the precise spot where Mr. Climber lost his life.”

“They did?” The question was asked loudly by Sal Biceps.

I looked to the table where Tony Silvestrie sat with Sims and Kunz. The physical fitness trainer reacted like a trapped animal. He stood. So did Lila Sims.

“Shall we, as they say, roll the tape?” Lackman asked. “It’s quite revealing. Mr. Climber had to be eliminated because he knew who’d killed Veronica Rivers.” To Mogul: “Did he threaten to tell the authorities, Mr. Mogul?”

Silvestrie and Sims pushed people out of their way and headed for an exit. The actor and actress playing them also stood and began arguing. The audience didn’t know who to watch, the departing real-life duo, or the actor and actress on stage.

Lackman said, “So, my devoted fans, the murder is solved. Stan Mogul was caught in the act of hanky-panky with Veronica Rivers by his nubile wife, the lovely Suzie Starlet. She enlisted the aid of Ms. Rivers’s personal trainer, Sal Biceps, in strangling Rivers and removing her naked body to a lifeboat on the Boat Deck, where she was discovered by a health-conscious passenger walking off a big breakfast.”

Stan Mogul proclaimed, “That’s right. That’s the way it happened.”

Lackman confronted him on-stage. “But you knew all about it, Mr. Mogul. In fact, you condoned it, were relieved that your lover was now out of the way.”

“Why would I feel that way?” Mogul asked.

“Because Veronica Rivers was blackmailing you into starring her in movies for your cable network. And what did she have to hold over your head?”

“Yeah! What was it?” the audience asked.

“That son born to Veronica Rivers and you many years ago. A son that you, Stan Mogul, refused to acknowledge as your own.”

I looked at James Brady, who sat at a table in the middle of the room, making notes. He glanced at me, smiled, made the okay sign with his fingers, and resumed writing.

Mary Ward smiled and nodded smugly. She seemed extremely satisfied.

But the play wasn’t over.

Lackman picked up where he’d left off, directing his next comments at Joe Manager. “You, Mr. Manager, were also happy to see your boss, Veronica Rivers, dead.”

The actor replied, “Why should I be?”

“Because it gave you leverage with Mr. Mogul. You now knew that his wife, Suzie Starlet, and Ms. Rivers’s physical fitness trainer, Sal Biceps, had killed Rivers. And that makes you an accomplice to murder.”

Everyone waited for Bob Manager to deliver his line from the script.

Instead, the answer came from Peter Kunz, seated alone at the table formerly occupied by him, Lila Sims, and Tony Silvestrie. “I tried to stop them, damn it, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“He’s in the play?” a wife asked her husband.

“Who’s he?” someone else asked.

Kunz stood. “I’m not taking the rap for anybody.” With that, he almost knocked over audience members, toppled two chairs, and ran from the Grand Lounge to the loud boos of the audience, which still assumed he was part of the show.

Security Chief Wallace Prall, who’d been standing at the foot of the stage, leaped up to where I stood. “If I read this right, Mrs. Fletcher, the play reflects what
really
happened to Marla Tralaine.”

“Yes, it does,” I said. “Thanks to that lady there.” I pointed to Mary Ward.

“We don’t have any arrest powers,” he said, “unless passenger safety is in jeopardy.”

“I don’t think that’s a problem, Mr. Prall. No one can go anywhere until we reach Southampton. I would suggest that Mr. Kunz be provided round-the-clock security, and be segregated from others. He’s obviously willing to talk, which will help turn speculation into hard evidence.”

“I’ll take care of that right away.”

“I’m glad we didn’t have to show the videotape of Mr. Radcliff being tossed overboard by Mr. Silvestrie.”

“I am, too.”

“Any word on Scotland Yard flying in?” I asked.

“It looked this morning as though the weather would delay that. But we’re out of the storm. Captain Marwick says it’s clear sailing in sunshine right into Southampton.”

“How symbolic,” I said. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

I joined Mary Ward at the table.

“That was wonderful, Jessica,” she said. “I truly enjoyed it.”

“So-did I—in a strange way.”

“What will you do for the rest of the day?”

“Start enjoying this ship, and the short time we have left on it. Besides, I have a special friend who’ll be arriving by helicopter any minute.”

Captain Marwick hosted a private cocktail party that evening for the Scotland Yard team, led by George Sutherland. The captain’s surprisingly large and handsomely furnished and appointed apartment was the perfect setting for the intimate gathering.

Besides George and his four-person team, and me, there was Mary Ward, Rip Nestor, James Brady, Jerry Lackman, Pamela Fiori and Michael Cannon of
Town and Country,
the British journalists, and a few other specially invited guests. The captain, looking splendid in his dress-whites, and his beautiful wife were the perfect host and hostess, roles in which they’d obviously found themselves countless times.

It lasted an hour. Following it, George and I escaped to a quiet comer of the Chart House Bar.

“Your arrival couldn’t have been better timed,” I said after our waitress had put down a dark ale for him and a glass of white wine for me.

“Let’s toast to that,” he said in his deep voice, tinged with the Scottish brogue of his ancestry.

“I told the security director that there wasn’t a problem because no one could leave the ship. But I feel a lot more comfortable having Sam Teller and his crew in your custody.”

“I share your feelings. You might have been in jeopardy had they been free to roam the ship. That young fellow, Kunz, is the sort of man I dislike intensely,” George said. “No backbone, no character.”

“But helpful to have someone like that around in times like this,” I said. “He’s corroborated everything Mrs. Ward and I conjured in the play.”

“Yes, it is handy having a spineless member of a criminal group to tell all. This actor, Lackman, intrigues me. A former member of the Los Angeles detective squad turned private investigator—and actor.”

“We had trouble figuring him out, George, until I cornered him and wrung it out of him.”

George laughed. “I’ve seen you at work before, Jessica. You’re a born interrogator.”

“Actually, it wasn’t that difficult. Once I knew—once Mary Ward and I knew—he’d been one of the detectives investigating the murder of Marla Tralaine’s husband years ago, it just made sense to assume he wasn’t on the ship only as an actor in the theatrical troupe. But I was surprised he’d been hired by Sam Teller to build a case against Marla Tralaine as having murdered her husband. According to Lackman, Teller wanted that in his pocket as a tool in negotiating with her. His failing was his inability to keep his libido in check. If he hadn’t ...” I laughed. “If he hadn’t engaged in
hanky-panky
with her, things would have turned out different. What a wonderful term that is. Mary Ward came up with it to, as she put it, ‘present sexual indiscretions in a more genteel manner.’ ”

“Quite a lady.”

“Certainly is. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. She picked up on every subtlety, every nuance, and created a scenario that proved to be true.”

“Back to Lackman,” George said, sipping his ale. “You say he signed on with this Teller fellow to build a case against the actress.”

“Yes. That’s one murder that will never be solved.”

“What happened once she was killed?”

“He decided to retreat from Teller, finish the crossing as an actor, and forget about it. But when he tried to get paid by Teller, and Teller balked, Jerry became angry. Once I told him of what we suspected in Tralaine’s murder, he was more than happy to cooperate. He’s wonderful on stage, George. A real talent.”

“I’d like to see him in action.”

“You can. The final act of the play—the original play I wrote—is tomorrow afternoon.”

“But I have to fly back in the morning.”

“Can’t you stay until we reach Southampton? It’s only an extra day.”

“I suppose I could. The other chaps can take Mr. Teller and his crew back themselves.”

“Will you? Stay?”

“Yes. I think I shall.”

“Wonderful.”

“Shame about that mountain climber, Radcliff. I’d seen his show on the telly back home. Amazing specimen for his age.”

“I thought he’d taken his life because of the terminal illness he had. Not the sort of man to do that, though. According to Peter Kunz, Radcliff had been with Marla when Teller said he wanted to see her. Radcliff tried to leave, but Teller was at her door too fast, so he hid in one of the huge closets in her penthouse. He was there when Teller virtually raped Marla, and when Lila Sims burst in. Must have been quite a scene. Silvestrie and Kunz heard the commotion and followed Lila into the penthouse. Kunz says Silvestrie hated Marla, and attacked her without provocation by Lila Sims. But you say that Silvestrie told you during your initial interrogation that Lila told him to kill her.”

“That’s right. He said Lila screamed, ‘Get rid of the bitch.’ And he did.”

“She had considerable power over him.”

“More a case of his wanting his own television show. He evidently figured Ms. Sims and her husband would return the favor.”

“Quite a collection of bad people.”

“Unsavory lot, that’s for certain.”

George ordered a second ale.

“Initially, Mary and I thought the gentleman host on the ship, Mr. Worrell, or Tralaine’s former lover, Ron Ryan, might have been involved. Turned out not to be true.”

“Fortunate for them. They’re both too old to end up in prison for the rest of their lives. What about Mr. Nestor, your director? You say he is the illegitimate son of Tralaine and Sam Teller.”

“That’s right. I feel sorry for him, coming from that background. But he actually seems relieved now that it’s all come out into the open. Even agreed to be interviewed by James Brady on his TV satellite feed this afternoon. Maybe he can turn it to his professional advantage.”

“That would be good. Well, Jessica, what does the rest of the evening hold in store for us?”

“Dinner in the Queens Grill. You haven’t met the TV chef, Carlo Di Giovanni, or Judge Solon. I doubt whether Elaine Ananthous will show up for meals.”

“Who is she?”

“The TV plant lady. Odd bird. Had a long-term relationship with Troy Radcliff. A pathetic woman, but decent enough, I suppose.”

“And after dinner?”

“Up to dancing? The ship’s orchestra is wonderful.”

“Not my strength.”

“You’re too modest. We’ve danced together before.”

“Yes, we have. I’ll give it my best.”

“And then—well, there’s so much to do and see on the ship. Tomorrow’s tea dance is a must. The Tommy Dorsey Orchestra plays every afternoon. There’s the spa and the sports deck. And, of course, the final act of my play. But do you know what I most want to share with you?

“Tell me.”

“To be wrapped in blankets on the top deck and be served hot bouillon. That’s eleven in the morning. Somehow, it represents for me what crossing the North Atlantic is really all about—the ultimate decadent, luxurious experience.”

He grinned and finished his ale. “It’s good to see you, Jessica.”

“Aren’t you going to add ‘under such unfortunate circumstances?’ ”

“I’ll take seeing Jessica Fletcher under any circumstances. Come on. If this clumsy Scotsman is going to do something as adventurous as dancing, he’ll need a good meal under his belt.”

I flew home from London on the British Airways Concorde, an exciting way to end my British holiday. I lost track of Mary Ward while in London, but received a long letter from her a few days after arriving back in Cabot Cove. Her family loved the gifts she’d brought; she said she had settled in again nicely in Lumberton, North Carolina, busy with a variety of pursuits, including doing her crossword puzzles and, of course, devouring murder mysteries and solving them before the authors intended.

Her dosing line was:

I put her letter in a desk drawer, picked up the phone, and called my travel agent, Susan Shevlin.

“Dying to hear all about the trip,” she said.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” I said. “In the meantime, would you book me again on the QE2 for next May? The twenty-eighth, if possible.”